Four Degrees of Fire
by sakuramae
Summary: The world is fueled by passion, and one businessman wonders why this fuel has left him bored. But perhaps his friends and the entrance of a fiery woman of merit might be able to spark the excitement back into his life.


_**Author's note**_: Just as a warning, I have only a vague idea of where I want to go with this story, so expect updates to take quite a bit of time. It will end up being a romance and definitely being about Kyouya, with smatterings of dramz, hilarity, and Ouran goodness in between. But yes, it's been a while since I've gotten back to writing any fanfiction, so, again, slow and arduous process!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I obviously do not own the characters and history of the _Ouran High School Host Club_. That in itself is the property of the wonderful Hatori Bisco, who has managed to make me smile, laugh, and sometimes even tear up by the sheer fabulosity that is this shoujo series.

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**Fire**

In the study of alchemy, there are four degrees of fire. The higher the step, the hotter it became, until one stood vulnerable over the naked flame, destroyed by the overwhelming heat.

Fire was passion, life. It was the yellow and the orange of the sun, and it was the copper and amber of a particular woman's locks. It was the movement of hands and the sparkling of eyes and the music of voice. Such things burned when one got too close.

Kyouya knew all of this about alchemy because his recollection was perfect. And after having listened to the Host Club prattle on about the ancient art of alchemy in one of their school days together, it was no surprise that he could still remember such an idea. But what did he need to know about alchemy anyway? To Kyouya, the practice of such a protoscience was absurd. There was no elixir of immortality, no Philosopher's Stone to grant a cure for all ailments. True medicine didn't allow for such fairy tales.

He wondered why the thought crossed his mind, why it even occurred to him that he should contemplate the idea of fire and alchemy. The Host Club had since disbanded to move on to better things, and he was in a different world, far across on the other side of the planet. Besides, even if, on a whim, he had a question about alchemy, who would he discuss it with? Mori, who had professed some interest in the subject matter due to his love of history, or Kaoru, the self-proclaimed English alchemy expert?

It was much too crowded in the cafe for a call to either of his friends, and certainly much too late for his them to receive it.

So Kyouya sat, and Kyouya pondered. Before him people went by in their hurried existence, not pausing to take the sights in. It was lunchtime, and men and women in suits chased after clients, friends, even lovers with packed schedules. The streets exploded with noise and movement, from waiters hopping tables in order to cater to their customers, to pedestrians whizzing across the block.

Nobody paid attention to the presence of one of the richest men in the business world. Certainly not the waitress, who had slightly blushed at her customer's cool countenance, nor the haggling stock trader who had bumped his table on the way out of the cafe without issuing an apology. The world moved, and Kyouya pondered.

He thought about the degrees of fire. He thought about how the flame increased in power, how it amassed such strength that all who got in the way would cower in its heat. He thought about how his recent business dealings mimicked such animosity, such burning greed.

But mostly he thought about how bored he was of it all.

He wrote his check and generously tipped his waitress. He left the cafe with barely a sip from his coffee and a small bite of his sandwich. It had all been pretense anyway. He really couldn't get used to eating the stuff. The cafe was his way of observing the real world, and the real world demanded he followed some lunching protocols.

But he was bored of the protocols. And he wondered where the beauty of such structure had gone.

He glimpsed the vision again. The one of fire. Of red hair and light brown laughing eyes. Of skilled, musician's fingers running over the burnished handle of a violin. Of a voice that had scolded him only that morning about how he lacked the desire to want, to need.

But she had been wrong, that woman with the fire in her hair. So terribly wrong. He knew what he wanted, knew what he desired.

The only problem was that he was afraid. For he had begun his walk, his travel through the degrees of fire. And he knew that once he reached the final stage, he would burn.


End file.
